The Storyteller (39 page)

“You can sleep in the guest room,” she said. “The two of you. There are two beds.” And, in a much lower voice, “The key is in the door at night, inside. Take it with you so you can get back in. You’re not a prisoner. This is not a trap … just a broken dryer.”

• • •

And then they sat at dinner like one big family. The lamplight was warm, and the kitchen smelled of potato casserole. And Micha talked with her mouth full about how she had baked cookies and how she could almost play the piano already.

And Linda smiled. And Abel wasn’t fidgeting in his chair like he had been at lunch. Once, Anna took his hand under the table and pressed it very quickly, and he pressed back.

“Abel can make potato casserole, too,” Micha said and put her fork down. “He can do anything … pancakes and pasta and cake. Even birthday cake. With candles on top. We’ll have one pretty soon and maybe with strawberries because it’s nearly spring. Or we can have frozen strawberries. Abel can make strawberry cake!”

“He seems to be a real saint, that brother of yours,” Magnus said drily.

The conversation stopped.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Anna hissed. “Why the sarcasm?”

“What’s sarcasm?” asked Micha.

“Sarcasm is when someone says the opposite of what he means,” Abel said in a low voice. “So, in other words, I’m no saint. I’m the opposite of a saint. He’s right. And the opposite of a saint doesn’t belong here, I guess …” He pushed back his chair, his hands on the edge of the table, and Anna put her hand on his.

“Stay,” she said. “Please. Please. Magnus is just joking. You see, Micha, that father of mine is really good at shoveling snow and feeding birds and curing sick people, but he can’t even scramble an egg, and, compared to that, anyone who can make potato casserole is definitely a saint. To be honest, Magnus couldn’t even tell the
difference
between a snow shovel and a potato.”

Micha laughed; and Magnus laughed, too; and Linda tried to laugh with them. Only Abel didn’t laugh. But he didn’t leave either.

“I’ve already made up the beds in the guest room for you,” Linda said.

“Do you want us to help with the dishes?” Micha asked. “I’m really good at washing dishes …”

Linda shook her head. “Our dishwasher is also really good at washing dishes. Sleep tight.”

And Anna watched Abel and Micha go up the stairs, hand in hand, like a picture on an old-fashioned postcard—as if everything was still all right, still perfect. But nothing was all right anymore, she could feel it. And later, she wondered if it was at that very moment that Abel decided he had to go out. If maybe it didn’t have anything to do with a call. Maybe he wouldn’t have left the house that night if Magnus hadn’t made that stupid remark. And maybe things would have turned out differently as a result …

She lay in her bed reading for a long time, not able to sleep. The cell phone on her desk rang, but she didn’t answer it. Gitta, she thought. Who else.

They’d said good night to each other, she and Abel, good night and no more … a little like strangers. She’d heard him whispering with Micha for a while, but now everything was quiet. Finally, she tiptoed over to the guest room and opened the door. Light from the streetlight outside dripped into the room like rain. One of the beds was empty. They were lying on the other one, together, Micha rolled up like a kitten in Abel’s arms, fast asleep. And Abel? Was he sleeping as well or was he just pretending?

She stood there for a moment, looking at Abel. His face was so
close yet infinitely far away. The shadow of the bed and the figures on it fell on the wall like a weird, distorted creature. An animal crouched low, waiting to strike. A wolf. She closed the door without a sound, crept back to her room, and crawled under her own covers.

He stood on the pedestrian bridge, looking out over the ice. The flakes had ceased to fall, but the river was covered with snow; even that thin layer of ice in the middle, where the fishermen had broken holes for their hooks, had frozen again—a network of invisible traps cloaked in snow, deceiving, dangerous. He knew where the frozen-over holes were; he knew where the ice was thin—he didn’t need to see it.

He pulled his scarf tighter. How cold it was! This winter was colder than any winter he could remember, and he’d seen many winters. To be precise: sixty-three of them.

The lights of the restaurant-ship were groping their way onto the ice, timid, as if they were afraid of the cold. He looked at his watch. Nine thirty. He was too early. She wouldn’t be here till ten. She had this unpronounceable name … Milowicz? Mirkolicz? He’d been surprised when she’d called him. Maybe she didn’t know anything. Maybe this meeting would be good-for-nothing. But maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe together, they could find out something.

Save something. He had the feeling that the whole situation was getting too much for the boy. Someone had to help.

He still wasn’t sure what had happened. There was Michelle, for example. He had the feeling that Anna was right, that she was really close, so close they couldn’t see her. But where was she? He’d found out some things, of course. He had his suspicions. But he wasn’t sure. He would have preferred not to know one thing that he did
know now. That made him sad. Incredibly sad. He walked over the bridge, to the other side of the river, where the restaurant-ship lay. He went down the stairs and stepped onto the ice. It was solid, solid like stone. It felt good to walk on it.

And then he heard steps behind him. The sound was almost hushed by the snow, but it was there. Probably it was just someone who’d come from the restaurant-ship, someone taking a walk between drinks. Or it was a person also waiting for a date. He turned. He saw a silhouette, its outline not very clear against the pale lights of the ship. It was too dark out here on the river. He didn’t feel like meeting anyone; he’d meet her in half an hour—that would be enough.

He turned back and walked farther down the frozen river, a little farther downstream, and then he would climb the stairs again and be back on shore. It would be time by then … the steps behind him were catching up with his. Maybe they were hers? Maybe she’d come early as well and seen him? He’d ventured so far from the lights now that it was absolutely dark around him. He’d thought the streetlights at the other side of the river would light the ice here, but the chunky bodies of the old vessels hibernating here, those antique monsters of sailing ships, shut out the lights.

He felt fear creeping up inside him. He didn’t really think it was her. For the last few days, he’d been the follower, the pursuer, the spy—unseen, he hoped, unheard, unnoticed. Now somebody had turned the tables. The vague figure behind him came closer. It was blocking his way back to shore, and he realized that he was walking toward the middle of the river. He reached the place where the ice was thin, or where he believed it to be thin. He stopped.

It didn’t make any sense to run away. He wanted to know now, to
know who was following him. He wanted to talk to that person. He was still afraid, but he was sixty-three years old—it wasn’t as if he’d never been afraid before, and up to now he’d always overcome his fear. This wasn’t a deserted beach, after all; this was the city harbor, in the middle of town; the restaurant-ship was only a few hundred meters away, the street even less.

He turned again, wanting to wait for the figure to reach him, but it already had … it was standing directly in front of him. He wasn’t met by a face. It was the barrel of a pistol. Of course, he knew the face behind it, even in the dark … it wasn’t as dark as he’d thought. He heard himself breathe in sharply, in an onset of panic—and of surprise.

“You?”

“Of course,” the figure answered. “Didn’t you know? Haven’t you known for a long time?”

“I …” He took a step backward, and the thin ice creaked beneath his feet. Directly behind him, there must have been a frozen-over hole.

“You started snooping around,” the figure said. “Like a mediocre detective. It’s not good to want to know too much.”

“I …” He tried to think. What if he screamed? What if he slapped the weapon out of that hand and ran toward the shore? He wasn’t fast—he knew that—and he felt paralyzed, his legs frozen stiff, like the ice on the river. He couldn’t run. He couldn’t scream, either. His vocal cords were ice-cold.

“Why?” he heard himself whisper. “Why all this?”

“Did you ever love?”

He nodded. “I think I did …”

“Not like this maybe. If you really love, nothing and no one is
allowed to get in the way. Do you understand that? I won’t allow anything to happen to her. This is not about me. It has never been about me. Turn around.”

“No,” he said. “And why?”

“Because I can’t look someone I shoot in the eye.”

He heard something like a suppressed sob, and at first he thought it was himself. But then he realized it was his opponent. And he understood one thing: he must not turn around. No matter what happened. There had to be a solution. A way to get out of this, unharmed. He didn’t feel hatred for the figure holding the pistol, only pity. Maybe this was somehow his fault … he should have understood sooner … he should have intervened …

“Turn around.”

He didn’t. He took a step back. He felt the thin ice give way beneath him. It happened quickly. One second he was standing on the river, and the next, there wasn’t anything beneath his feet. He didn’t feel the cold. The world just disappeared.

And somewhere in the city, someone was wandering the streets aimlessly, hands deep in the pockets of a jacket, white noise in his ears. Somewhere, far away from the river and much later. Somewhere and sometime. No saint.

And somewhere else—and we know where, don’t we?—someone was waiting on a restaurant-ship … in vain.

And somewhere, a silver-gray dog with golden eyes barked in his kennel. Maybe a boy with glasses heard him when he opened the gate. Perhaps, unable to sleep, he’d just gone for a walk.

And somewhere, on a leather sofa, two bodies were moving,
entwined like a puzzle, like ice floes, and the light fell on dyed-black hair and on red hair, while in the ashtray, the butt of a joint slowly turned to ashes. How late was it? They hadn’t looked at the clock when they’d gotten back …

And somewhere, somewhere very close by, a vanished person lay in deep, exhausted sleep.

In the middle of the night, Anna woke up because an ice-cold body was pressing against her. She wasn’t sure if she was really awake or if she was dreaming. The body smelled of winter air and cigarettes and of something familiar, and for a moment she was stiff with fear. The body was much too close, and a memory of it being even closer flashed through her like lightning, painful and red.

“Abel?” she whispered. He didn’t answer. He was fully dressed and he was cold as snow.

She pushed the memory aside with all her force, rolled over on her side and put her arms around him. She tried to warm him, but she couldn’t. It was as if he would never, ever become warm again. The shutters shut out the night and created a new, denser night in the room, a kind of absolute night without up and down, right or left. She couldn’t see a thing, all she could do was feel. And she felt the torn cloak of love, the one she had made up to explain things to herself. It was real in that night; she could feel its fabric brush against her skin. She lifted the cloak and put it around the two of them to shut out the world and all reason. She buried her fingers in his hair, laid her hands on his ice-cold cheeks.

And then she heard a strange and frightening sound, like the whimpering of a dog, very low … it lasted only seconds, but it was such a desperate sound, such an infinitely helpless sound, that she
shuddered. “Abel,” she said again. She wanted to ask him something, but she didn’t know what. She just held him tight, and, finally, she fell asleep, still holding him in her arms.

When she awoke in the morning, she was in bed alone. She walked over to the guest room barefoot. Abel and Micha were still asleep, together in one of the beds. She must have dreamed that encounter in the night. He’d never been outside.

“
“THE SNOW IS MELTING,” MAGNUS SAID AT BREAKFAST
and pointed outside, where thick round drops were falling from the roof. “My robins will come back.”

The sun was shining on the snow. It would take some time for the snow to go, but it was a beginning.

Nobody said much at breakfast. It was a good kind of Saturday-morning sleepiness, Anna told herself. The silence didn’t mean anything. She went to the basement with Abel to take the dry clothes down from the line. Upstairs, they heard Micha trying to play the piano again.

“She’d stay if I’d let her,” Abel said, smiling. “She’s already forgotten me, hasn’t she?”

“Bullshit,” Anna said. “You’re a saint, remember?” And she hugged him with a shirt in her hand, which led to a weird kind of entanglement.

“Last night,” she whispered. “Did you leave the house?”

He hesitated. “Yes,” he answered finally. “Not for long, though. I had to … deliver something.”

“And did you come to me afterward … or did I dream that?”

He stroked her hair. “You dreamed that,” he said.